


attaboy

by crossingwinter



Series: the end of days [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, a modern au in which bran stark breaks his back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was nothing like running.  Nothing in the world—your legs moving almost of their own will as the line of trees in the backyard got closer and Bran found the footpath he and Arya had made over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	attaboy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only fic I have ever written while listening to a playlist on repeat. That playlist can be found [here](http://8tracks.com/crossingwinter/attaboy/). I think it enhances the experience, but then again, I'm biased.

On a cool day at the end of summer, Bran Stark woke up after most of his family had left the house.  The note stuck to the refrigerator door with a magnet told him that his mother had taken Arya shopping for college supplies, that his father had taken Robert clay-pigeon shooting and Robb and Jon and Theon had gone with him.  Sansa had taken Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen into town to shop and maybe see a movie, and Rickon was nowhere to be found. 

On most days, Bran would have minded.  On most days, he would have at least begrudged them not leaving him any pancake batter—the remnants of which he saw in a bowl in the sink—if they were going to let him sleep late.  But not today.  Today was the first day that he woke to find a chill in the air, and, as much as it made him sad to know that summer was winding to a close, he also knew that today would be the first day in a long while where running would be easy.

Bran had always loved running.  He ran around the hiking trails near the house, miles and miles of forest walkways, up and down the hills and around the lakes and over the brooks.  He loved the crackle of trees, the way that the light danced around him on golden days or shivered in the grey ones.  He loved feeling his legs stretching longer and longer as he ran, the experience of his stride elongating as his muscles grew warm and awake, and today, Bran would jog in the cool.

Running was easier in the cool.  His breath didn’t overheat in his body, and he didn’t sweat as much and so was less quick to grow thirsty.  He also liked that indescribable bite of dry fall air in the back of his throat, that almost had some sort of ashy quality to it, if air that hadn’t had fire in it could have a bite of ash.  He liked feeling warm in the middle of the chilly air, like he carried some sort of unquenchable flame in him as he ran—as if he were the Meereenese torch…

He smiled to himself, found some yogurt and picked an apple from the refrigerator, biting into them and grinning.  A light breakfast—he’d eat more after his run.  Then he found his headphones and went out onto the porch. 

Summer was on his feet, wagging his tail happily and Bran let the direwolf lick his face before opening the door.  Summer trotted out ahead of him, hurrying over to a heavy maple tree and marking it while Bran did some jumping jacks and bent over, stretching his calves, his quads, his hamstrings, his sides.  The direwolf came back and sat patiently, watching him with his head cocked.

Ready to run, Bran rubbed Summer’s head and took off, the direwolf leaping ahead of him joyfully.

There was nothing like running.  Nothing in the world—your legs moving almost of their own will as the line of trees in the backyard got closer and Bran found the footpath he and Arya had made over the years.  They had explored the woods at night, when Mom was asleep and couldn’t stop them sneaking out of the house and trying to climb the old maple trees by night.  He’d always climbed higher than Arya had.  He loved climbing. Arya said there were rock-climbing teams in college, and if he didn’t make the Meereenese team the way he wanted to, he could at least get a lot of climbing done.  Bran didn’t think that far ahead.  Bran was going to make the Meereenese team.  He was going to run for Westeros in three years—he could feel it in his bones.  He would place, too.  He’d get bronze at least because when he ran, it was like he was flying. 

Bran launched himself through the trees, hearing the crackle of fallen and dead branches under his feet, feeling the give of leaves that had fallen already and which were damp from last night’s rain—slippery.  He would have to be careful.  Last year he’d tripped and hurt his knee, and he couldn’t afford to do that this year—not while the Meereenese team tryouts were so soon, not when, at the very least, he had the cross country team to keep him running when Arya was gone.

He would miss her.  It was Arya who he’d gone running with, starting her freshman year of high school, even though she was two years older and suddenly had a workout regimen because she wanted to make the varsity field hockey team and they’d gone along the path so many times over the summer that the underbrush had slowly broken away and died beneath their feet, as they ran, breath mixing with the forest air.

He tried not to think about Arya leaving, going south with Sansa.  He didn’t like the way the house grew quieter as slowly his siblings went away to college—Jon and Robb first, going to Castle Black and Riverrun, then Sansa to King’s Landing, and now Arya. 

He didn’t like running alone.  That was part of why he brought Summer with him.  When he and Jon and Robb had found the wolf pups, Father had made a comment about wolves and packs, and Bran had always thought that their family was a bit of a pack.  They always did things in groups—whether it was him and Arya running, or him and Sansa curled up in front of the fireplace in the evening, reading, or him and Jon and Robb building Rickon a new bike rack—and certainly him and Rickon playing with the wolves in the backyard…they were always together, always an entity.  At least—in the summer, when they were all home.  And now autumn had come, and they were going their separate ways, and even though Jon _could_ come home on the weekend from Castle Black, where he was getting his PhD, Bran knew better than to expect that he would.  He hadn’t come home except for holidays, and Robb had gotten all excited about his new girlfriend at Riverrun and went to hers during holidays because her home was less of an ordeal to get to—just a few hours drive and…

He missed Robb.  He missed Jon.  He missed Sansa, and the way she would always slip him books when she was finished and her book choices were always perfect, even if they always had some rather ridiculous sex scenes in them, and now, he would miss Arya too.

Father had once told him that growing up was realizing that other people carried on without you, that life led you to different corners and that even if the distance hurt, that didn’t mean you didn’t still care.  You just might not know each other so well as you used to, but the caring was there—the loyalty, and when it came down to it, that was what mattered.  He’d said it last smithsday after Robert and his children and his in-laws had arrived, after Robert had gotten drunk and talked about Aunt Lyanna for half the night, ignoring the way his wife’s frown grew more pronounced, and the way that her twin’s expression grew stonier and stonier.  Bran remembered thinking that Jaime might hit Robert at one point that evening, but he hadn’t in the end.  Tyrion had changed the topic of conversation, asking Robb about his dissertation, but Robert’s face had stayed red and Father’s eyes were distant for the rest of the night. 

Bran didn’t like it when father’s eyes were distant.  He didn’t like it when any of their eyes were distant.  He didn’t like it when they were far away…they’d all be far away in just a week, and it would be just him and Rickon and Summer and Shaggydog. 

He didn’t like to think about it, so he focused on his breathing, the way the air seemed to chill his lungs and dry his throat, as if it were turning him slowly to ice from the inside, and he relished in it because his lungs were clear.  No more of that humid summer air, because as much as he liked the warmth of the sunshine, it was harder to run when your lungs were full of moist summer air so thick you felt like you were inhaling enough water to be drowning. 

He ran, his heart thudding in his chest, beating strong and loud and free and how could you stay sad when you were running?  How could you?  Maybe it was the beginnings of a runner’s high—a real possibility, as he’d been going for at least a mile now, and sometimes it kicked in early if he hadn’t eaten too much—but it was like his heart in his chest was pumping the sadness away.  You couldn’t think sad thoughts when you were moving, when your legs made you feel like you were sailing through the air like a catamaran, barely making contact with the surface.  And Summer—Summer at a pace beside him.

Together, he and the direwolf pushed on, past brambles of blackberries ripe just in time for autumn, and if he’d been walking with Sansa, they’d pick them and put half in their mouths and half in a basket to make a pie of later, and Sansa would throw berries at him, and he would try and catch them in his mouth and they would both of them cheer whenever they managed.  And maybe, if Arya wasn’t out, she would have come with them and she’d pelt Sansa with berries and Sansa would shriek and chase after her until she was breathless because Sansa wasn’t an athlete the way that Arya and Bran were, and they could run circles around her if they wanted to.  And Bran would throw berries at Arya for good measure, and it would devolve into a mess of purply juice and they’d have to throw their clothes in the wash right away when they got home or else they’d be stained.  If Arya came, there was never enough berries for pie, but Bran couldn’t care, because it was the fun of it that mattered, and the way that Mother rolled her eyes when she caught sight of them, muddy and purpled and laughing as they emerged from the trees and knowing that it wouldn’t matter _when_ she’d last done laundry because she’d have to do it again.

Summer paused at the base of a pine tree, sniffing at the cones at its base, and Bran pushed past him, knowing the wolf would catch up.  This was his favorite stretch of the run, now.  They were getting to the walls of the old castle, covered with ivy and moss and lichen and when he ran with Arya and if he outpaced her—which he could for long distances; field hockey had turned her into a sprinter—he would climb up the old stones.  Arya sometimes would try to climb after him, but she never made it as high.  Maybe her fingers were more slippery than his—or maybe she was more scared than she would ever admit to, or maybe she was simply afraid of heights—but she never made it to the top of the walls the way he did.  He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the walls, to see if Summer was behind him, but the wolf was nowhere in sight.  So he dug his fingers into the old stones, and found crevices with his feet, the same way he had when he was five and he first remembered coming out here with his family, and his mother had screeched bloody murder and made Robb and father come and pull him down.  They hadn’t needed to, though.  Bran had never once fallen—and he knew he wouldn’t that day, just as he knew he wouldn’t now as he made his way up the wall.

And when he reached the top, he stared out over the old castle, and the old godswood, with its ancient heart tree in the middle and he almost felt like he had conquered a kingdom, like he was staring out over his dominion, and he laughed at the thought, because even if he _was_ a Stark, and Starks had once been kings in the North, everything was a democracy now.  No one could have a dominion.  Better to pretend he was a god—one of the old gods of the North, and feeling the way the wind ruffled his hair and cooled the sweat at his neck, and seemed to whisper “ _Bran, fly, Bran.”_  

If he could fly, he would.  He wished he was like the super heroes in Jon’s comic books—the ones who could run so fast they didn’t even need to touch the ground, but rather hovered over it flew across it.  They could leap further than anything, and if Bran was one of them, he’d be able to leap from this wall to the one a half a mile away on the other side of the godswood. 

But Bran wasn’t a hero, a god, or a king, and he heard the sound of Summer whimpering below so he crouched down, and made his way back down the face of the wall, letting himself drop down the last few feet, and letting Summer lick his face as he scratched behind the wolf’s ears. 

“Did you have fun running around?” he asked the wolf, who panted hot in his face.  Summer’s fur was so soft.  Softer than usual.  He half expected Sansa to have run her brush through his fur while Bran had been asleep, since Lady’s fur was always so pristine.  There was only so much brushing one wolf could take.  He tugged away some stray leaves and burrs from the wolf’s fur, then stood.  “Ready for more?”

And they were off again, sailing through the trees around the curtain wall of the old godswood, and Bran pretended he was racing Arya, because this straightaway was where she always sprinted ahead of him, just to prove she could move faster than him if she wanted to.  He ran flat out, as fast as he could, practically hearing the sound of Arya’s laughter in the wind, because his fastest wasn’t her fastest, and even if he could run his five-ks faster than anyone north of the Neck, he couldn’t out-sprint Arya when she put her all into it.  That was how they ran, though, when they ran together.  Back and forth, one ahead of the other, then the other pulling ahead, like they were weaving back and forth, their wolves neck and neck, and their laughter filling the air as much as their breath. 

She never beat him though—even if she sprinted at the very end of their runs—she had always burned through most of her energy by the time they hit the main road just along the rock-face and she couldn’t sprint faster than him then.  And he’d laugh at her, and she’d stick her tongue out at him, and tell him not to be snotty because everyone knew she couldn’t be beat in a short race, even if that wasn’t the point of their runs—their runs were for endurance, and Bran’s was better than hers, and, gods, he’d miss her.  He’d miss her like he missed them all when they went away.  Because as good as Rickon was, he was _twelve_ and surely Bran hadn’t been _that_ way when he was twelve.  Surely he hadn’t been _that_ immature.  But he supposed he wasn’t the baby of the family, and Rickon was.  Rickon could get away with more than Bran could.  Not that Bran tried to get away with much.  He had seen the way his mother’s face twitched in frustration when Arya pushed curfew, or Sansa snuck drinks into the house, or Robb snuck girls into the house.  Bran didn’t want to cause trouble that way.  Rickon seemed to want to cause more trouble than all of them combined.

It wouldn’t be too bad with just Rickon though, he supposed.  Jon had always said that it was fun—being around thirteen year olds because that was when they turned into real people.  Arya had elbowed him when he’d said that, and he’d joked that she’d never be a real person no matter how hard she tried and then he’d mussed her hair and hugged her.  Bran tried to remember what he’d been like when he was a child—and there was something to what Jon said, but also he wasn’t sure he fully agreed.  There was something he had liked about being a child, something carefree and good.  Not that things were bad now, and not that he wasn’t carefree, but…it was just different.

Because he did have things he cared about now that he wouldn’t have noticed when he was a kid.  When he was younger, he’d wanted to run for the Meereenese team, for example, but he hadn’t really known what would go into it.  He’d just known he’d have to run a lot, so he’d let his mother sign him up for soccer, and he’d run around a lot until he’d gotten to high school and realized that yes—he would need to run, but he would need to _run_.  No playing—focused training, just him and the road and his feet striking the ground beneath him and the cool air—summer, fall, winter, spring, every day except for relax days and stretch days, pushing himself to run and only run because if he let himself be distracted by the game around him, he wouldn’t actually get faster.  And maybe that was just normal growth, or realizing that you have to push yourself to be everything you want to be, but Bran…Bran was pushing himself.  Bran would run for Westeros in Pentos in two years—he _knew_ it, and he’d be hired for sports car commercials and it wouldn’t matter that Robb was the oldest and got the most attention, because Bran would be just as famous as Robb ever would be, with his aspirations of being elected to the House the second he was old enough to run.

But Jon was also wrong—because it wasn’t just that he’d grown into being a person.  He’d always been Bran, and he’d always be Bran.  It was just that he was more honed now.  He was focused.  He had his eyes on the prize and that prize was a golden medal that someone would place around his neck while the crowds roared his name and sang the national anthem and they waved flags with the seven steel bars on them.

He couldn’t feel his legs anymore.  He could only feel his hips as they swung back and forth as he moved and Bran laughed because he knew he was high for sure now.  He’d probably been high the whole time.  He’d heard Jon and Robb and Theon talking about weed before, and how you never really know what it’s like to be high until you’ve tried it, and Arya, he had a feeling, had.  He didn’t know about Sansa. But Bran wasn’t sure he’d ever need to—not so long as he could run and the world could go bright in his eyes as his pupils dilated and everything was perfect and happy and good.  Besides, no toxins in your body, not if you wanted to make the Westerosi team.  Toxins weighed you down when you ran, and right now, Bran was flying—really flying, his legs practically stretching out straight in front of him as he ran and his breath coming short if he could judge from the sound of it, but it didn’t feel that way.  It felt like his chest was cool and his blood was warm and his skin was cool—like there was cold outside and in, but his blood and bone were warm and alive and strong as his legs carried him around the curtain wall.

He was almost at the main road now—almost there.  He would be there in fifty feet maybe, reaching asphalt that made his knees rattle a bit.  When he and Arya had made the path, they’d tried to avoid the main road, but they couldn’t because of the rock face that rose out of nowhere, it seemed, higher than anything, around for miles except for some of the broken towers of the old castle, and if you went around it to the left, you ended up back in town, and if you went around it to the right you ended up hitting the warehouses and mother had told them that she would skin them alive if they ran through the warehouses.  And while Arya was all for it, because they’d be fine, and Mom never needed to know, they hadn’t in the end.  He couldn’t remember why.  Maybe because back then, they hadn’t been able to run as far, and so the five miles around the woods and the castle was enough and the half-mile back home would be that stretch where your legs burned and your longs ached and you just wanted to stop, but if you stopped you wouldn’t get faster, you wouldn’t get stronger and better.  Make it as challenging as possible, and have it be along the asphalt.  Now—the five miles was easy.  Bran had done this loop twice, three times in one day before.  And sometimes he thought about running it four, but didn’t think now was the time to push it.  Fifteen miles was a good long run, except if he was training for a marathon, and he wasn’t just yet.  H would—when he made the Westerosi team.  But for now, he’d stick to fewer laps.  And today, he’d only do the one.  He’d call up Sansa and go into town with Myrcella and Joffrey and Tommen, or run defense between Mom and Arya when they got back from college shopping and undoubtedly wanted to rip each others’ throats out.  Or maybe he’d even call up Robb and see if he, and Jon, and Dad, and Robert—

Bran stopped running and frowned, looking up the rock face.

There was definitely a car parked up there.  Just along the edge of the ledge.  He hadn’t realized that there was a road that led up there.  He was sure there wasn’t.  But there it was—a shiny black SUV.  Bran frowned, and felt Summer nudging him towards the house with his nose. 

“Hang on,” he told Summer, and the direwolf whined.

Who would go up there?  And why? 

And what did they see?  The last thought came on the heels of the other two and Bran felt his heart skip a beat.  They’d see everything that he could see from the top of the curtain wall, only better—better because it was higher up and because it was new and Bran hadn’t climbed it hundreds of times.  He’d be able to see everything—the whole North, his whole kingdom spread out at his feet as he’d never seen it before and—

He ran his fingers along the grey stone of the rock face.  He’d never thought to climb it before.  It was smooth, but there were crags, and if he weren’t high on his own blood and the cool air he probably would have thought better of it.  Mother would murder him if she saw him climbing the rock face—especially not without someone else there and a lot of harnesses or maybe some picaxes to hoist himself up with.  But that voice faded away as the wind whistled in his ear, whispering “ _Fly, Bran, Fly_ ,” so he found a handhold and hoisted himself up. 

The rock grew less smooth the higher up he went, and his fingers were sweatier than they usually were.  It was why he never climbed the curtain wall after the first lap, because he didn’t want to slip.  And he didn’t slip now, though he heard Summer whining as he found false holds, and tested nooks and crannies with his sneakers.  It wasn’t an easy climb, but Bran knew that it would be worth it, knew it would be when he reached the top and found the road the car had carved to get up here, and turned around and looked over the ledge and saw the North and Winterfell stretched out beneath him, more vast than before because he would be higher up.  And even though his fingers scrabbled in places and his feet sometimes dangled loosely while he calculated the next foothold—he was fine, and mother worried too much, and even if he didn’t make it to the Westerosi team—even though he _would_ —he would still be able to do rock climbing in college like how Arya said he could, and he’d sit on top of rock faces overlooking the sea and take pictures to send to Sansa because she would be able to use it as inspiration for her creative writing.  He wish he had his phone with him now, so he could snap a picture when he got to the top, and could show Arya what he’d done.  She’d be jealous of him, but she also didn’t like climbing the way he did.  No one liked climbing the way he did.  Jon once said he wished he could climb like Bran, and Rickon tried but Rickon didn’t have the patience for it.  You couldn’t be impatient when climbing or else you’d fall.  You needed to be calm, calculating, careful, but also brave and Bran was all of those things as he went higher and higher.

He was maybe three-quarters of the way up when he heard it—heard…something.  He wasn’t sure what.  But he didn’t let himself think on it too much.  It was probably whoever had worked out the way up the cliff to begin with.  It was around noon—maybe they were having lunch, or playing a game.  He hoped he didn’t scare them when he poked his head over the top, and grinned at the thought of it.  Even if he did, they’d get over it nice and quick, he was sure of that.  They’d laugh, and say how frightened they were, and they might even give him a ride back down.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to scale down, though he would if he needed too.  His fingers were tired was all, and the higher he rose, the more his high seemed to diminish, even though his exhilaration rose.  It was an odd counterbalance. 

Bran poked his head over the edge of the cliff face, hoisting himself up so his elbows were square on the ground and he gripped the grass, catching his breath.  Only then did he see what the noises he’d heard were.

They were naked, and he was quite sure they were having sex because there was nothing else they _could_ be doing if they were…Bran blushed.  They were both blonde and he could see the man’s muscles straining as he pressed his lover up against the door of the car, and he was kissing her neck, his head tilted so that he couldn’t see their faces.  He should turn back—he shouldn’t have come.  He’d climb up again tomorrow and find the path they’d taken.  It wouldn’t have disappeared. 

The man moved his head, and Bran gasped even though he knew he should _shut up_ because that was Cersei Lannister—that was Robert’s wife and—and—

Her eyes had opened when Jaime had moved his head and he watched them go from hooded and lazy and pleased to wide and shocked and she was shoving her brother away from her and telling him to stop, and he was looking around, shaking himself, and Bran wished he hadn’t noticed just how slick Jaime Lannister’s cock was as his fingers released the grass and found the cliff edge and he began trying to make his way down the cliff again.

“Jaime—” he heard Cersei crying out and he saw Jaime Lannister running at him, and for a moment, Bran thought he was going to help him up the cliff, explain it, talk to him, make him believe that what he’d seen was a lie.  Because Jaime was holding his hand now, gripping it and pulling him half up to where he’d been before.

“He saw us,” said Cersei. 

“I know,” Jaime said.

“He _saw_ us, Jaime.”

“I heard you the first time.”  He turned to Bran, his hand still holding Bran’s.  “Careful there, or you’ll fall.” But even as he pulled Bran higher, his grip grew more loose instead of more tight, and Bran found his hand slipping out of Jaime Lannister’s and he flailed, trying to catch grass, then rock face as he could have _sworn_ he heard him say, “The things I do for love,” so quietly that he might not have but whether or not he did didn’t matter was that he was rushing through the air, falling, flying, as Summer howled on the ground below.

**Author's Note:**

> In a dream world, this will be the first fic in a modern au series about Bran. I have a ~~very~~ tremendously bad draft of the second one which I probably won't touch for a good long while and may well scrap entirely. Part of the problem is my plans are very nebulous at this time, and I'm not one for directionless writing. In any case, I'm putting it in a "series" mostly to signify that intent. Maybe I'll have an update for you soon; more likely it will sit for a while.


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